


responsibility

by nanasekei



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Second Person, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 23:12:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15423738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanasekei/pseuds/nanasekei
Summary: He has brown eyes and you fight together. He can fly, and, to your surprise, he follows your orders. He sends a blast on your direction and you reflect with the shield, as if you both have been doing this for your whole lives.Call it, Captain, he says, and so you do.





	responsibility

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags. I made myself sad writing this.

When you wake up, the first thing you feel is the light.

It hits your eyes inside the room, and it burns when you run through the street. So many signs, colors, shapes, noises. This, you learn firsthand, is the future, a world filled with too much light and sound for you to bear.

* * *

You see his file, before you see him.

You see footage of a wild party. In the center of the room, in the center of everything, there’s a man with wild hair and fancy clothes, stumbling around and slurring his words. His hand wears a metal gauntlet and he shoots things for laughs, leaning closer to the dames who surround him.

He’s Howard Stark’s son, you learn. He’s loud and obnoxious and reckless. You don’t like him – but, then again, he’s just one more addition to the list of things you don’t understand about this new world, things that make you feel frustrated and uncomfortable.

You spend too long staring at his file, though, because it’s a nice distraction, a good way to postpone going through the long pile of papers marked “deceased” on your desk.

* * *

When you dream, you see many faces. You see Peggy, Bucky, Phillips. Jones, Morita, Dugan. Sarah Rogers, over and over again. Eskrine, pointing a finger to your chest. Johann Schmidt, telling you you’ve left humanity behind.

In a bizarre way, he turned out to be right, you think, after you wake up, shaking and sweaty.

* * *

He has brown eyes.

You didn’t catch that in the video, distracted by the continuous blasters he threw on the wall and how he shamelessly flirted with every woman in the vicinity. They’re brown and big, the type of brown people say looks like honey, because there’s some green mixed with it, thrown in the middle as if whoever made the color couldn't make up their mind.

He has brown eyes and he hates you. You don’t like him either – you tell him that, in so many words, feeling an anger you’re not used to.

He has brown eyes and he makes you feel stupid. He talks too fast, jokes too much. He’s Howard Stark’s son, but he looks nothing like him – Howard was cold and precise, calculating and rational, and Tony Stark is all over the place, all movement and noise, much like this new world you’re expected to get used to.

He has brown eyes and he has never lost a soldier. You don’t know how old he is, but inside the helicarrier, when he paces around furiously, face flushed and concentrated as if he can revive Coulson’s soul if he thinks hard enough, he seems young, younger than you initially would have taken him for.

(Everyone is younger than you now. You have to keep reminding yourself that.)

He has brown eyes and you fight together. He can fly, and, to your surprise, he follows your orders. He sends a blast on your direction and you reflect with the shield, as if you both have been doing this for your whole lives.

 _Call it, Captain,_ he says, and so you do.

* * *

When you walk through the streets, you see many faces. You turn around constantly, nervously, thinking you saw a ghost where there was none – someone with Morita’s nose, Phillips’s hard face, Peggy’s braided hair.

You see Bucky many times. You see him in strangers’ blue eyes; in large, arrogant smiles in teenage boys’ faces; in street corners and cold winds and bad dreams.

Bucky doesn’t see you. He won’t for a while.

* * *

“Bruce is staying for the night.” He says, working on something on his tablet, not looking at you. “Sure you don’t want to spend a couple more days?”

You stay in silence for a moment, as if you’re thinking. You’re actually watching his fingers as he works. They’re long and calloused, fast but still very careful, and you wonder if Tony’s ever broken something by accident (you break a lot of things).

“Thanks, but no.” You say, hands in your pockets. “SHIELD’s getting me a place in DC. They have a few OPs there that could use some help.”

“Nice. Say hello to Barack for me.” Tony quips, throwing a glance in your direction. “Are you going to eat before you leave? There’s pizza in the fridge.”

It’s a strange piece of information to make you flush, but it does. “Oh. I… I could eat something, I guess.” You walk to the kitchen counter, and you can feel him watching you. It’s strange, being the target of Tony’s gaze. When you fumble with the drawers, looking for the plates, you hear him chuckle a bit, but it’s not a mocking laugh – it’s low, soft as if you weren’t meant to hear it in the first place, and it sends a warm feeling on your chest. “How many pieces do you want?”

“Uh? Oh, I’m fine, don’t worry. Pep wants to try out this new Thai place - have you ever had Thai food? Was there even Thai food in your time? Well, obviously, in Thailand, but you know what I mean. I’m actually supposed to be getting ready…” He glances at the clock and frowns. “Twenty minutes ago. Oh well.” He shrugs and stands up, throwing the tablet away. “Have a nice trip, Cap.”

“Thanks.” You say, but he already left.

* * *

He flies into space.

 _That’s a one-way trip_ , you tell him, because you feel like you should. He hates you, but it was nice to hear Peggy’s voice when you fell, so you suppose it could be nice for him too, to hear someone else.

It’s not a one-way trip.

When he falls, Thor rips off the faceplate of the armor, and he takes a sharp breath and opens his eyes as if he, too, is surprised to be alive (you can relate).

He smiles and jokes, his eyes bright and glimmering as if the reflexes of the stars never left his gaze (you cannot relate).

_Let's just not come in tomorrow. Let's just take a day. Have you ever tried shawarma?_

He has brown eyes and you feel yourself smiling, and, if you’re going to be honest, you never really stood a chance.

* * *

When you dream, you hear Zola’s voice. You see the names. You think of blue eyes and brown eyes, and you’re scared, and every day you think you might be getting closer but you aren’t.

You tell yourself it was Zola’s computer. You can’t be sure. It could have been – anything, anyone. It was just a bunch of names on a screen. It doesn’t have to be true.

It doesn’t have to be like that.

* * *

In the Bartons’ barn house, the bed is big enough for two people. You don’t sleep sprawled up, and he’s not a big guy. There’s no reason to be uncomfortable. No reason except that you can’t sleep, and you feel him shifting beside you, and he shifts a lot.

You wonder what’s he’s dreaming. Tony’s dreams must be scarier than yours ever could – they must be more vivid, stronger, brighter and bigger, as his mind carries him through a universe inside his head that you could never hope to understand.

When he wakes up, you look away.

* * *

Here’s what they don’t say, at the museums: Morita said it was too risky. They were always up for a rough time, the Commandos, but they knew when to get a word in, if they thought it was necessary. That day, Morita did, and you talked to him, presenting good arguments, and in the end he nodded and said _Your call, Captain._

Here’s what they don’t say, in the films: It was your call. Everything they did was your call.

Here’s what they don’t say, in the history books: Bucky compared it to the Cyclone. Bucky always made jokes when he was nervous. He was scared.

Here’s what they say, everywhere: He fell.

Here’s what they don’t say, anywhere, even though they should: He fell, but it’s as if you dropped him.

* * *

Bucky lays a hand on your shoulder as you follow T’Challa into the palace.

“Saw the news.” He says, and you stiffen under his touch.

“We need to focus.” You say, and he nods.

“Yeah.” He stops as T’Challa comes inside to call the Dora Milaje. His eyes are blue and heavy as they stare at you. “But that’s not the point.”

You take a deep breath.

“He’s come back from space before.” You blurt out, because Bucky – Bucky has blue eyes, and he once tried to kill you, and when you were eight you fell to your knees in the middle of a game because you couldn’t breathe right, and he could’ve turned away and left, but he didn’t.

Bucky nods again. He doesn’t lie to you, because that’s not what friends do.

* * *

He has brown eyes.

He has brown eyes and he hates you.

_Did you know?_

You stutter. He has brown eyes and he makes you feel stupid.

_I didn’t know it was him._

The stars flash furiously in his gaze, a sparkle of anger and hurt so raw you feel you should look away.

_Don’t bullshit me, Rogers. Did you know?_

* * *

Here’s what they don’t say, anywhere, and never will, as long as you live: It was your serum. They weren’t going for some random experiment. It was your body, your speed, your strength. They wanted you and he was torn apart in the process, tamed, molded into a version of yourself they could use for their gain. His fall, his torture, even his murders - _your_ serum. Your call.

* * *

 _Yes_ , you say.

* * *

Sam frowns and smiles, holding your notebook. “Who told you Thai food was a milestone of 21st-century culture?”

You shrug and don’t answer.

* * *

There are a million other things you could say – a million things about his eyes, about your dreams, about what they don’t say at the museums. There are things you should have said before – the truth, for starters; and maybe other things too, you think. It should be a package deal, when he finds out you’ve lied about one thing, that he finds out about everything else you’ve been lying about, about forgotten sketches on the corners of your notebook and stolen gazes during interviews and how the way his eyes crinkled made your heart swell on your chest.

He doesn’t find out about any of that. Instead, he looks at you and takes a sharp breath, and you break his reactor and your team and any chance of those truths ever coming to the surface again (you’re good at breaking things).

* * *

You search for Bucky every day, tirelessly. You hear Zola’s voice in the back of your head, but you push it aside, and you tell yourself you can do this, because you have to. It’s your call. You think of names in a screen and blue eyes and brown eyes and – you can do this. You can save them both.

* * *

Tony disappears among the stars – further, you imagine, than anywhere you could ever be – and the last time you saw him, he hated you as much as anyone could hate anyone else.

Bucky fades into dust before your eyes, face confused and scared as you had seen only once before.

You fall to your knees and wish you didn’t have to get up.

* * *

When you wake up, it’s still dark outside.

You glance at the clock and see you’ve slept a whole hour. You don’t even try to close your eyes again, because it’s impossible to do so without seeing all those faces, without thinking about Bucky, Wanda, Vision, Sam (God, _Sam)_ , T’Challa, all those million other lost souls you never got to meet.

Instead you go to the front yard, quietly, trying not to wake up anyone who has actually managed to fall asleep (it’s a rare thing for everyone).

Tony Stark walks out of your dreams and meets you at the door.

* * *

“I’m sorry.”

He frowns. It’s late night, and he’s busy working – he thinks he found a way to get the fuel they need for the spaceship, and he can’t sleep if the numbers aren’t right.

“About Bucky.” You continue, and his eyes widen. In the night you can’t really see their color fully, but they’re still big and bright, staring against you in the hall of the wakandan palace. “I should have told you.”

He opens his mouth in shock – you haven’t talked about that, not for a moment, since he arrived – and runs a hand through his hair, eyes darting away nervously before returning to your face. “We all fucked up, Cap. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

You swallow, because – because it still matters to you. After everything, after the world ended before your eyes, it still – it still matters, how much Tony Stark hates you. You think it would still matter even if you had turned into ashes.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” You say, and even in the dark you can see the way his body tenses. He probably wants you to stop talking, but, well, you never really did what he wants. “I… I thought I was protecting you both.”

There’s a moment of silence, and when he speaks his voice is low and soft, sending a shiver down your entire body: “I know.”

He’s turned towards you, now, and you’re aware of how empty the hall is, how no one can see both of your figures in the dark, how the light of the moon casts your shadows so faintly they could be mixing together.

You swallow again, because your mouth is suddenly dry. “It-it wasn’t my call.”

He lets out a short, startled laugh. “That’s not the point.” He says, and he takes a step forward, and – and you’re too close to take any more steps towards each other without touching. “I missed you.” He says, almost whispering, as if he’s talking to himself. He takes another breath and it seems like he shakes, like he’s blinking too fast. “God, did I miss you.”

“I missed you too.”

“Did you?” He blinks, ducking his head slightly to the side, and it would be comical if it weren’t infinitely sad and fragile, the way he sounds honestly curious, asking this to you here, in the dark, after the world has ended.

“All the time.” The words jump out of your mouth, and it’s impossible to take them back. “Even – even before, I. All the time.”

There’s nothing in your ears except the short, sharp breath he takes. “You-“

“I, I should-“

His hand snaps forward and grabs the collar of your shirt with too much strength to match the softness of his voice: “Don’t go.”

You don’t.

* * *

There’s not enough light in Vormir, you think when you land. That’s the last coherent thought you’ll have for a while, when you take a few steps forward, and you’re clutching Tony’s fingers too hard and there’s an abyss in front of you and you stare ahead to a face that once told you you’d left humanity behind.

“Captain.” Red Skull says, and Tony’s clutching your hand back too, just as tight.

* * *

“Don’t fade.” He whispers, a bunch of words almost lost in the middle of the rough, hungry kisses he presses against your mouth, his arms around your waist, pulling you against him as if you’re going to try to run away at any moment. “Please, please, just – I fucking missed you so much, I-“ You want to respond, to say something, but it’s impossible to talk, with his mouth wet and warm against yours, frantic and open. You hold him and he kisses you deeply and your body shudders, and he lays his head on the curve of your neck and breathes as if it’s only way he can find air. “I thought you were gone. I thought I had lost you.”

 _I didn’t even know you had me,_ you think, but you can’t form coherent sounds to say anything so you just run your fingers through his hair, pulling his head up and finding his lips again. _You did, you do, but I didn’t even know you wanted that._

“Don’t fade.” He repeats when you pull apart, panting, kissing your lips softly, sweet and careful in a way that makes your heart ache. “Please, please, stay.”

“I will.” You say, holding him tightly, because you think you’d promise anything he asked with those bright, vulnerable eyes. “I. I never thought you-“

“Not the point.” He says, a small smile curling up his lips, and he rests his forehead against yours, hot breath so close to your lips it’s as if you feel his mouth moving when he whispers. “Love you.” And his voice is so low, so soft, that it feels almost like a violation to hear it, Steve, even if he’s talking to you in the first place. This is Tony laid bare, open, and his hands shake as he holds you, as if he’s afraid, as if he hasn’t had you since he the very first time he decided to glance in your direction.

“I love you too.” You manage to let out, and for a moment you think he might say that’s not the point again – because it isn’t, really, just because he said it doesn’t mean you were supposed to hear it – but instead he blinks and kisses you so strongly that you stumble backwards as his body crashes into yours, and you both step over the ashes of the world on the way to his room.

* * *

In the Bartons’ barn house, you can feel him stretching as he wakes up. You feel yourself going rigid and you focus your look on the ceiling, so that you never find out how his brown eyes blink themselves awake.

“Morning, Cap.” He whispers, and you feel a shiver down your spine, and you could – you could look, couldn’t you? You could turn for a moment and see his messy hair and lazy face, smile back and say something silly, see his surprised laugh, reach forward and touch his waist and find out what the stars taste like.

“Good morning.” You mumble instead, lifting yourself up.

* * *

“No.” You say – too nervously, too loudly. Your Captain voice fails you when you need it the most.

Tony’s hands cup your face, and you hold his wrists terribly tight, enough to bruise, like you usually try not to do, but now you feel like you need. Thor, Natasha, everyone else is moving away, giving you two space, getting ready for what’s about to happen – but no, nothing can happen, _no._

“Steve.” He says, gently, taking a step backward, pulling you with him. It’s a step closer to – no, no, _no._ “Come on.” He whispers, and his voice sounds low, sweet, like it did whispering to you in the bed of the palace.

“I can’t.” You mumble, and you know it comes out choked, way higher than it needs to, with his face so close. He kisses you, lightly on the corner of your lips, then on your cheek, your forehead.

“It has to be you.” It’s another soft whisper, and he peppers more kisses over your face, as if he can’t help himself. “I’m sorry, I wish-“

“It doesn’t have to be _you_.”

“Yes, it does. He’s been in my head, baby.” He says, kissing you again, resting his forehead against your cheek. “God, I love you. I love you so fucking much. I’m sorry.”

“Stop it. Tony, you can’t-“

“Steve,” He whispers, and his voice is full of fondness and affection and you can feel his lips moving against your skin as he speaks. “This is not your call.”

You breathe sharply, his breath and scent mixing inside the air you inhale, and he kisses you one more time, deep and slow. Then he grabs your hands and takes them to his chest, where you can feel his heart beating, and he takes another step backward.

* * *

Shawarma tastes nice, and it turns out to be one his favorites. He orders it sometimes, after a meeting or a battle. He opens the box with long, elegant fingers and passes you a plate you hold carefully (it took you a while to get used to your strength, you’re still scared of breaking things by accident). He talks and talks and talks, with Bruce and Clint and Thor and even you, sometimes, catching you by surprise when his glance turns to your direction. There’s sauce all over his face and he laughs when you point it out, following the direction you indicate only to mess it up even more until Natasha wipes it for him, and he laughs and talks and you’re so in love, Steve, as you never thought it was possible for a person to be.

* * *

There’s a funeral, after most of the dust has been cleaned off. The whole world stops to watch, because it's important. One death that saved millions.

You help carry the casket.

You talk. It’s expected that you would, to sell the media on a reconciliation they didn’t get to see. You talk about how Tony Stark turned a new leaf on his life and saved the world. You talk about his value as a team member, about how he never ceased to support the Avengers, even after retiring. You talk about how knowing Iron Man was an honor, and you’re proud of having fought by his side.

The next day, reporters in every news channel will rip your speech apart, saying it seemed like you were reading off cue cards, which, to be fair, is exactly what you’re doing. You come across as cold and rehearsed, especially after Rhodes’ emotional words. You don’t care – your Captain voice does the work for you, and before you know it, the speech is done, and all you need to do is sit quietly staring at a casket you know is empty.

After the funeral is over, you come to the compound. You work, you help everyone get settled down, and it’s only at night that you go to his room.

You sit on his bed, and, as you bury your face in his pillow, you think you could have had this before – you could have reached out and held his hand at the kitchen’s table, could have rolled over and kissed him in the Bartons’ barn, could have felt his body curled up against yours in weather other than the sunny days of Wakanda. You think of Vormir, of how he kissed you too many times to say goodbye and not enough times to distract you from his shaking hands. He said _I wish_ and you know now what he was thinking of.

You open his drawer and take one of his shirts, burying your face in expensive silk to smell him, and you think you could’ve had years, the two of you. You could have had years. You smell his cologne and fight back the tears, because if you dampen the fabric the perfume will come off quicker, and that’s what you could have told them, at the funeral: That every second you spent standing there was a second where you could’ve kissed him, could’ve felt his smile against your skin, could’ve held his hands in yours. You could have said he had brown eyes that held whole galaxies inside them, and that he smiled before he blinked himself awake, and then his eyelashes fluttered as his eyes opened and one day even your perfect memory will forget it, because you didn't see it many times. You could have had years, but this is what you have, an empty room with a pillow and old clothes. You could have said you fall asleep in his bed every night and when you wake up you take a moment to pretend he's in the bathroom, in the shower, about to go back to bed and join you. You could have said that his body shuddered when you pushed him and you almost reached forward to pull him back, and in these mornings you wish you had, because there’s a part of you that still thinks half a universe wasn’t worth it, and an entire universe wouldn’t have been.

(It wasn’t your call.

But that’s not the point.)

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at my tumblr: [x](http://elcorhamletlive.tumblr.com/)


End file.
